The two Paladins, on their horses, dropped right into the middle of the Saracens, and began making such havoc about them, that Marsilius, who overlooked the fight from a mountain, thought his soldiers had turned one against the other.  He therefore descended in fury with his third army; and Rinaldo, seeing him coming, said to Ricciardetto, “We had better be off here, and join Orlando;” and with these words, he gave his horse one turn round before he retreated, so as to enable his sword to make a bloody circle about him; and stories say, that he sheared off twenty heads in the whirl of it.  He then dashed through the astonished beholders towards the battle of Orlando, who guessed it could be no other than his cousin, and almost dropped from his horse, out of desire to meet him.  Ricciardetto followed Rinaldo; and Uliviero coming up at the same moment, the rapture of the whole party is not to be expressed.  They almost died for joy.  After a thousand embraces, and questions, and explanations, and expressions of astonishment (for the infidels held aloof awhile, to take breath from the horror and mischief they had undergone), Orlando refreshed his little band of heroes, and then drew Rinaldo apart, and said, “O my brother, I feel such delight at seeing you, I can hardly persuade myself I am not dreaming.  Heaven be praised for it.  I have no other wish on earth, now that I see you before I die.  Why didn’t you write?  But never mind.  Here you are, and I shall not die for nothing.”

“I did write,” said Rinaldo, “and so did Ricciardetto; but villany intercepted our letters.  Tell me what to do, my dear cousin; for time presses, and all the world is upon us.”

“Gan has brought us here,” said Orlando, “under pretence of receiving tribute from Marsilius—­you see of what sort; and Charles, poor old man, is waiting to receive his homage at the town of St. John!  I have never seen a lucky day since you left us.  I believe I have done for Charles more than in duty bound, and that my sins pursue me, and I and mine must all perish in Roncesvalles.”

“Look to Marsilius,” exclaimed Rinaldo; “he is right upon us.”

Marsilius was upon them, surely enough, at once furious and frightened at the coming of the new Paladins; for his camp, numerous as it was, had not only held aloof, but turned about to fly like herds before the lion; so he was forced to drive them back, and bring up his other troops, reasonably thinking that such numbers must overwhelm at last, if they could but be kept together.

Not the less, however, for this, did the Paladins continue to fight as if with joy.  They killed and trampled wheresoever they went; Rinaldo fatiguing himself with sending infinite numbers of souls to Ashtaroth, and Orlando making a bloody passage towards Marsilius, whom he hoped to settle as he had done Falseron.

In the course of this his tremendous progress, the hero struck a youth on the head, whose helmet was so good as to resist the blow, but at the same time flew off; and Orlando seized him by the hair to kill him.  “Hold!” cried the youth, as loud as want of breath could let him; “you loved my father—­I’m Bujaforte.”